


Breakfast

by ArtisticRainey



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 19:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4317063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtisticRainey/pseuds/ArtisticRainey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's home, and for Gordon, that means one thing: breakfast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakfast

John’s home. Like, he’s already taken his solitary butt off to bed but that doesn’t matter. He was grumpy because he tripped over M.A.X. again (I wonder if that little robot _deliberately_ tries to make him fall) so I don’t really mind that he’s disappeared already. What I’m really looking forward to is tomorrow morning.

For tomorrow morning, we dine in heaven.

John does it every time he’s home. I’ll be out in the pool, finishing my morning swim – and for the record, I am _always_ the first one up, no matter what Scott might say. A guy sleeps in _one time_ …

Anyway. I’ll have just finished my last length and will slide out of the pool, all muscles rippling and rivulets of water running down me – _yes_ , ladies and gents, please _do_ imagine that – and I’ll see that redhead noodle starting to potter around the kitchen. Nothing will stop my silent punch of victory.

 _Yes_. John breakfasts are the best in the world.

This time was no exception.

After a night of sleep uninterrupted by the need to save the world, I toddled off to the pool for my swim practice and, just as I was finishing up, there he was, greeting the morning with a determined set to his face.

I towelled myself off and threw a shirt on – pink with a vibrant pineapple pattern, a total gem – pulled on some shorts and slipped into my flip flops. They were another excellent example of my wonderful fashion sense, with their pattern of purple and green trees and little brown monkeys.

As I approached the swathe of glass that made up the whole front wall of the kitchen, I could see John gathering everything he needed. Before he started, he would always set everything out in nice neat lines, items arranged by size and cross-referenced importance. After that, he would set out the ingredients he needed and _only then_ would he begin.

“Mornin’, Johnny,” I said as I stepped into the cool kitchen.

“Morning, Gords,” he said, not looking at me – too focused on the task at hand.

Hopping onto one of the bar stools, I smiled as a glass of OJ was set down in front of me. He didn’t need to ask. He didn’t even need to _look_ at the carton. John’s mind was busy calculating how many much pancake batter he needed to feed the five thousand – alternatively known as Alan – and the order in which to approach the preparations.

It’s true that when John first returns from space, he’s clumsy and awkward and doesn’t always remember that on Earth with us mortals, he can’t just leave stuff hanging in mid-air. We don’t let him use ceramic mugs any more for that very reason. However, after he’s had a bit of time to adjust and a good night’s sleep, he’s not so bad. Which is great, because it means he starts to cook.

My dear grandmother, whom I love so much, is not the greatest of chefs. And when I say not the greatest, I mean she is woeful. Appalling. She tried to make a soufflé once and I thought it was going to start the nuclear apocalypse. So, precisely where Johnny learned to cook is a mystery. But I am so glad he can.

Every time he’s home, we go through the same ritual. Today is no exception. I sat at the breakfast bar, sipping my OJ, and watched Johnny work his magic.

I will never understand how he can do so many things at once. I will never understand how the can do things _without looking at them_. Seriously, he’ll be slicing a bagel or a muffin while looking at the grill and closing the stove door with his foot, all at the same time. I tried multitasking while making dinner once and, well, I don’t know if those scars will ever fade…

John can think about one thing, concentrate on another and _talk_ about something completely different, all at the same time. It’s amazing. He started babbling about some science thing – I am not a dummy, but I really don’t get physics.

“…I mean, David Tong said that we can think of the gauge symmetry of the classical theory as descending to the Hilbert space of the quantum theory.”

Simultaneously, he was plunging the French press with one hand and flipping pancakes with the other and talking about quantum theory. Like, _how?_ Pancakes flipped, he turned to the English muffins he was toasting.

“But,” he said as he flipped open the grill cover, “like Tong also said, we can’t just _stipulate_ that two states are _physically identical_ unless they give the same expectation value for all physical observables…”

The only ‘physical observables’ I cared about at that moment were the perfectly crisped muffins and the round halo of a golden brown pancake stack and the seemingly endless supply of bacon.

He was still talking about some particle or another when he started to transfer the smorgasbord to the dining table. Taking my silent cue, I grabbed some cutlery and plates and started setting the places. The coffee cups were filled just as the others started to arrive, drawn by instinct to the delights of a John breakfast.

“Morning, Johnny,” Scott said as a cup of perfectly prepared coffee was pressed into his hand.

Alan’s eyes were wide as saucers and his smile enormous as he took in the delights in front of him. Virgil, yawning, clapped a hand on John’s shoulder as a greeting. John guided Grandma to a seat at the head of the table and when he saw that Kayo was hanging back, her arms folded as she leaned on the counter, he pulled out the chair beside Grandma and just _looked_ at her. He didn’t even need to say it. _Sit down. You’re part of the family_. And so she did.

Brains adjusted his glasses and sat down and started talking some technobabble as John started dishing out the food without looking, all his attention on Brains and quantum fields.

I took a seat and gratefully accepted the pancakes and bacon and English muffins and watched as John fussed and made sure that everyone got enough.

And then he stood back and sipped his coffee from a plastic mug and didn’t eat anything, because John doesn’t _like_ pancakes or bacon or English muffins.

I caught his gaze as the others tucked in and gave him a little salute with the piece of maple-syrup coated pancake on my fork.

“Amazing, as always, Johnny,” I said.

There was a chorus of agreement and John dipped his head in response and took a sip of his coffee.

Behind that plastic mug, there was a smile of satisfaction, and a glint of contentment in his green eyes.


End file.
